A Criminal Carol
by Riandra
Summary: Christmas Eve, 1890. Moriarty's empire stands on a knife edge, but three ghostly visitors may yet convince him to turn from his life of crime... Nah, just kidding, but it'll be fun to watch them fail!
1. For Whom The Bell Tolls

**==Chapter 1==**

 **For Whom The Bell Tolls**

Christmas Eve, 1890.

Professor James Moriarty seldom visibly lost his temper, but the report he had just received from the Hotel Cosmopolitan seemed an excellent reason to make an exception. Still, morale within the Firm was important, particularly at this time of year; thus he took care to allow the nervous underling to leave his office before slowly crumpling the report into the smallest wad he could manage, picturing himself crushing a certain treacherous agent's windpipe. James Ryder was going to wish he had never been born...

The Countess of Morcar would never have suspected that her treasured blue carbuncle had been stolen if the maid hadn't acted too early, forcing Ryder to carry out the theft before the replica was ready. And then the damned fool had hidden the stone inside a _goose_ , of all things! It was enough to drive a man to despair, it really was... and most galling of all, Holmes's meddling had made it impossible for Moriarty to salvage the operation without openly revealing his hand in the affair. The boy had foiled his plans yet again, and he most likely wasn't even aware of it!

Frustration safely vented for the moment, Moriarty began to penitently smooth the crumpled sheets back out, although he was still extremely angry – not least because he was well aware of where most of the blame could be laid: himself. Holmes had not appeared to be any kind of threat to the Firm when the detective first became aware of its existence, but casual scrutiny had quickly turned to what Holmes's biographer might have termed an _idée fixe_ ; and if Moriarty were honest with himself, the fascination was wholly mutual. His own admiration for Holmes's abilities seemed to have evolved into an odd kind of paternal indulgence, leading him to let down his guard to an unpardonable extent. And here was the result! Respect for an enemy notwithstanding, Holmes was rapidly becoming an intolerable nuisance, and Moriarty feared that drastic measures would soon have to be implemented. The question was: which measures?

Neither Holmes nor his older brother were the sort to be bought off, quite the opposite. Mycroft was also a cornerstone of the British government, and while Moriarty was all for the strategic removal of an opponent's pieces, one did not overturn the board entirely in a fit of pique. Besides, collateral damage when dealing with any threat was shockingly bad form, which unfortunately meant that striking at Holmes through Dr. Watson or his wife was also out of the question.

Moriarty sighed deeply, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temples – he could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. There seemed only two viable options remaining. He could either eliminate Holmes alone, which, short of a direct assassination, would be nightmarishly complicated... or he could simply allow the detective to destroy himself. That dreadful addiction of his, how often had Dr. Watson warned Holmes that it would one day be the death of him? And to deprive Holmes of interesting work, all Moriarty's agents had to do was to work less themselves! A year, say, with no significant cases to speak of, and Holmes could easily turn to the needle once too often out of sheer _ennui_.

The cost to Moriarty himself would be considerable, of course, but only in the short term. Sometimes the Professor wondered whether Holmes calling him the Napoleon of Crime had really been intended as a compliment; Napoleon had ultimately been defeated by Wellington, the Duke being as masterful in retreat as in his advances. Moriarty's greatest challenge here would lie in convincing his subordinates to view this strategic withdrawal as a mere precursor to winning the war, rather than as an outright surrender. Still, he felt confident that they would quickly come round, especially once they knew that their own salaries were in no danger!

* * *

Colonel Moran shook his head, brows knitted in something dangerously close to a scowl. "They won't like it, sir, any of them."

"I do not require them to like the decision, Colonel," Moriarty replied pointedly, "merely abide by it." The adjoinder 'especially you' went unspoken. "My door is always open, of course, should anyone wish to discuss specific concerns."

Moran snorted. He knew as well as Moriarty that there would be very few personal interviews after the committee meeting, if any. "When will you tell them, Boxing Day?"

"No, the day after will do well enough." Moriarty exchanged the files he'd been reading for the report Moran had just brought in. "Which reminds me: roster a skeleton staff here for the 26th, no more than half a day apiece. Double wages, as per usual."

Moran tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Yes, sir."

Moriarty tutted, resisting the urge to sigh. Why the man should think that his supposed generosity stemmed from anything besides sound logic... He had always taken care to reward the loyalty of his employees, and those prepared to spend time away from their families during the holiday for the good of the Empire were compensated appropriately.

"But if I may make so bold, Professor, what are _you_ still doing here?"

The Professor arched a sardonic eyebrow at the accusing tone. "I shall ignore what I can only assume was a rhetorical question and ask, against my better judgement, where you think I should be."

"Well, it is Christmas, sir – all right, not till tomorrow, but..."

"And what has Christmas to do with it? I should still have work to do, Colonel, were we in the middle of an August Bank Holiday."

Moran started to reply, when both men were startled by the sound of a child's voice outside the office window, raised in a hearty, if not entirely tuneful, rendition of 'Good King Wenceslas.'

Moran snickered at Moriarty's eloquent expression. "Well, you've got to admire the lad's enthusiasm."

"If not the volume," Moriarty answered tartly. "Very well, you may reward him for his zeal, Moran, then speed him on his way."

"You're all heart, sir," the Colonel smirked, strolling out of the office.

"What an appalling notion!" Moriarty sniffed. "However did you come by it?"

Moran merely laughed.

* * *

Gradually, the Firm's headquarters emptied as the hour grew later and the evening murkier, two of the bolder staff even daring to knock at the office door and wish their employer a merry Christmas before hastily withdrawing. Moriarty acknowledged the sentiment with a curt nod, then returned to his paperwork.

 _Now, it is a fact that there was nothing at all particular about the clock on the mantelpiece, except that it had been specifically chosen by Moriarty for its inability to chime the hour. Let it also be borne in mind that Moriarty had seen it, night and morning, for as long as his headquarters had been established here. And then let any man explain, if he can, how it happened that as the church clock in the distance began to chime the eleventh hour, Moriarty heard the mantel clock behind him begin to sound in sympathy..._

 _'All through this hour,_

 _Lord, be my guide...'_

Moriarty was not a man given naturally to flights of fancy, although he was mildly surprised for a moment. Turning calmly in his seat, he looked up at the clock, thinking that perhaps some wag among the staff, Moran most likely, had stealthily exchanged one timepiece for another as a joke.

 _'That by Thy power_

 _No foot shall slide...'_

But no, it was the very same clock which had always sat there, no mistaking that singular crack in the glass... or the ghostly face that suddenly appeared in the place of the dial as the strokes began to ring out. It was a face Moriarty knew well, though one he had not seen, nor expected to see, in forty-five long years... the late Professor Cecil Beckett, M.A.

Eyes fixed upon this inexplicable phenomenon, Moriarty rose slowly from his seat, but even as he did so, the vision, if such it might be called, faded away on the last stroke of eleven as swiftly as it had first materialised.

To say that Moriarty was not startled would be untrue. Nevertheless, he advanced unshrinkingly towards the mantel and took the clock down for close inspection, albeit with a moment's hesitation. What he had expected to find, he could not have said; certainly, nothing unusual revealed itself, without or within – and yet... Moriarty was conscious of a rising revulsion, the steady _tick, tick, tick_ vibrating against his skin as the hands moved steadily onwards all at once putting him morbidly in mind of a heartbeat... and which sounded eerily loud in the sudden, deafening silence. Even the fire had ceased to crackle and snap, its heat mysteriously absent, though the leaping flames continued in their dance, the temperature in the room dropping far faster than might be considered natural.

"Hm..." Moriarty bestowed a grim smile on the spot where his old mentor's face had briefly appeared, replaced the clock, walked back to the desk, and reseated himself, hands folded in front of him. He hadn't long to wait; less than a minute later, a soft yet oddly reverberating knock sounded from the other side of the door.

"Enter."

The commanded entrance would doubtless have been most impressive, Professor Beckett's ghost passing through the heavy door as though it were morning mist, if Moriarty had only troubled to turn down the gas beforehand. As it was, Cecil Beckett looked as pale and incongruous under the bright light as a candle flame in the noonday sun, blinking uncertainly at his calmly expectant host through the same half-moon spectacles he had worn in life. Moriarty found himself idly wondering why a phantom would have need of such things, but then surmised that it would be typical of Beckett to have retained them even in death through sheer force of habit.

Aside from his new translucent state, the elderly professor looked exactly as Moriarty remembered seeing him the last time, right down to the neat bullet hole in his chest, although the bloodstains on his shirt and waistcoat were dark silver rather than crimson. Beckett nodded ponderously, as if sensing where his former protégé's gaze lingered, giving Moriarty what was probably intended to be a chilling stare of accusation. It didn't work.

"Professor Beckett, good evening," Moriarty nodded, gesturing invitingly for his ethereal guest to be seated. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You've not been expecting me?" Beckett's echoing voice was much the same as well, though perhaps a little more querulous than before – Moriarty had no doubt it was justified.

"I cannot conceive why I should have."

"Not at any time, these last forty-five years?"

"If you are referring to your _execution_ after my forced resignation from Oxford –" That bullet had been neither more nor less than a just reckoning; "I did not regret it then, and I fail to see now why I should have allowed it to weigh heavily upon my conscience."

"Conscience!" the ghost wailed suddenly. "Do not speak of such things, blind Man, to one who has sat at your elbow every Christmas Eve since my murder, mourning for what remained of the promising young man I had been proud to call friend and colleague!"

"Was it a relief to have less to mourn over every year?" Moriarty responded dryly. "Perhaps you should have mourned instead for yourself, for what _you_ had failed to do."

The ghost shook his head, haunted eyes beseeching Moriarty's understanding. "You had made too many enemies in high places, my boy, I could not help you!"

"Without sharing in my disgrace, perhaps not. And yet there were plenty who spoke louder and longer in my defence than you did, colleagues in whom I had considerably less faith than your good self." Moriarty waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in his chair. "However, I do believe you never answered my original question." He highly doubted that Beckett had waited this long to manifest in his presence merely to dredge up one sordid incident. "Why have you come here tonight?"

"To warn you, James Moriarty. Men's courses foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from..."

"The ends will change, yes, I know," Moriarty sighed. "And you wish me to do what, exactly? Break down and make some sobbing, heartfelt vow to renounce my wicked ways?" He was having great difficulty keeping a straight face at the hopeful look in his former colleague's eyes. "My dear Beckett, pray do not expend your pity upon those who neither deserve nor desire it. I am under no illusions as to what Fate awaits me when I finally depart this mortal coil – as it doubtless awaits those who profess to condemn my efforts to leave the world in a slightly better condition than when I entered it."

"You stand fast, then?" Moriarty had seldom beheld a sight more pitiable than the disconsolate spirit in front of him.

"Absolutely." Then before Beckett could reply, he added kindly, "But it has been, to my great astonishment, most refreshing to talk with you again, Professor – quite like old times. Perhaps in future, we might..."

The ghost shook his head resolutely, chin jutting. "I came here tonight to warn you, my boy, and warn you I shall: that the fate you believe to be inevitable need not be so. But since you will not be convinced by these poor words of mine, the message must be conveyed by other ministers. You will be haunted by three more spirits before this night is over."

"Three!" Moriarty's eyebrows shot up at that. "My dear Beckett, I hardly think..."

"Without their visits," Beckett pressed on as if he hadn't heard, "you cannot hope to forsake the path you tread. Expect the first when the bell tolls one."

"Beckett, I warn you..." And Moriarty had no sooner said those words than he recognised them for the pure bluster that they were; what could a spirit possibly have to fear from a mere mortal, even the Napoleon of Crime himself?

"Expect the second and third thereafter." The gleam in Beckett's eye as he rose from his chair told Moriarty that he had also recognised, and was quietly relishing, his former colleague's frustration. "Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!"

And with that, the confoundedly smug ghost floated back the way he had come, leaving a fuming Moriarty searching his memory index for any clergymen on the Firm's payroll who could perform an exorcism on short notice.

* * *

A/N: This story was a result of Hades Lord of the Dead's Christmas Calendar Challenge. Loads of fun, I recommend signing up, even if you can't finish! Many thanks to Wordwielder and KnightFury for their inspiring prompts. And yes, this story cribs heavily from Charles Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol', both prose and dialogue. The details of Moriarty's past and criminal empire, however, come courtesy of my best friend and beta, Aleine Skyfire, whose marvellously detailed headcanon on the Professor and Moran can be found in full in her story 'I, Moran: Untold Tales from Conduit Street.' Please go check it out!

For any purists out there, I know Watson states clearly that the Blue Carbuncle case doesn't start until two days after Christmas, but I just couldn't resist playing around with the dates for the sake of the story. Hey, it's not like Watson never does it. ;)


	2. Future Concerns

**==Chapter 2==**

 **Future Concerns**

Moriarty looked about him for the Ghost of Christmas Present as the invisible clock began to strike twelve, and was grimly pleased to see that the Spirit had vanished – and not before time, either!

It hadn't taken him long after Professor Beckett's departure to decide that if _three_ spirits were determined to pay him a visit, even the most devout priest wouldn't delay them forever; he might as well simply get it over with. The first Ghost had been the dullest of the three thus far: Moriarty had absolutely no interest in reviewing his past, everything of importance was already catalogued in his memory. Besides, the sanctimonious little prig changing form all the time was, to Moriarty's way of thinking, merely showing off – you couldn't tell him that a being that powerful couldn't choose a single shape and keep it if it wanted to!

He'd been slightly more interested in seeing the present, thinking that a different perspective of his Empire or of Holmes might be helpful, but he had been sadly disappointed in that, too. The Ghost of Christmas Present was revoltingly cheerful when it first appeared, and laughed far more heartily than any sane person ought. And the visions he'd been shown... did the Spirit honestly think that Moriarty's time on earth had been wasted? His donations to charity, his efforts to encourage reforms within society – ones that would actually work! – _and_ he had always done his best to ensure that his employees and their families were provided for: fed, clothed, sheltered, even educated. If Holmes would only allow himself to see the harm that would be done by destroying Moriarty's network, perhaps they could have reached a compromise. As for the means used to achieve said ends, that was ultimately between Moriarty and whatever Judgement awaited him _after_ death.

Well, only one Spirit left now, thank God. Lifting up his eyes as the last stroke of twelve ceased to vibrate, Moriarty beheld a solemn phantom drifting towards him, dressed in a hooded black robe so that all he could see was one thin, almost skeletal hand.

"Good evening," Moriarty greeted politely, as he had done with the other two, resisting the urge to carp by saying 'Good morning', which it most likely was. Moran would be pleased: Moriarty intended to spend most of Christmas Day in bed after this. "The Ghost of Christmas Future, I presume?"

The folds of the Spirit's hood contracted for a moment, as if it had nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, lead on, then." He heartily wished that the Ghosts could have dispensed with all the melodrama, but at least this one seemed to be a Spirit of few words.

The phantom turned silently and drifted away, with Moriarty following, the Spirit's shadow almost seeming to carry him along in its wake. He had to admit, this spectre intrigued him far more than any other he'd seen. What kind of world would it show him?

* * *

 _"All that I have to say has already crossed your mind."_ Two men sat facing each other in an unfamiliar sitting room.

 _"Then possibly my answer has crossed yours."_

 _"You stand fast?"_ Moriarty half-smiled to hear his future self use the very same turn of phrase that Beckett had used with him.

 _"Absolutely."_ Sherlock Holmes spoke boldly, but Moriarty could still see the delicious glimmer of fear in his opponent's eyes.

The future Professor reached into his pocket, Holmes raising his pistol from the table until he saw that Moriarty was merely bringing out his memorandum-book. _"You crossed my path on the 4th of January."_

The present Moriarty pricked his ears up at that! What the devil could he have been doing to invite Holmes's continued meddling in his affairs?

 _"On the 23rd you incommoded me; by the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans; and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty."_

" _What?_ " Moriarty thundered, completely forgetting in his wrath that these future shadows couldn't see or hear him. What in God's name had happened to all his carefully laid plans for temporary retirement? Was it possible that Holmes would fail to be deceived by the retreat, continuing in his dogged pursuit until Moriarty's criminal empire lay in ruins? "Spirit," he said angrily, turning to the silent figure beside him, "are these visions of things that _will_ happen, or merely things that _may_ happen?"

The Spirit gave no reply, and his future self was still in mid-lecture. _"You stand in the way not merely of an individual, but of a mighty organization, the full extent of which you, with all your cleverness, have been unable to realise. You must stand clear, Mr. Holmes, or be trodden underfoot."_

"Fool!" Moriarty hissed viciously at himself. "You never should have let him live past Christmas!"

 _"I am afraid,"_ the shadow Holmes said, rising, _"that in the pleasure of this conversation I am neglecting business of importance which awaits me elsewhere."_

The shadow Moriarty also rose, shaking his head sadly. _"Well, well. It seems a pity, but I have done what I could. I know every move of your game. You can do nothing before Monday. It has been a duel between you and me, Mr. Holmes. You hope to place me in the dock. I tell you that I will never stand in the dock. You hope to beat me. I tell you that you will never beat me. If you are clever enough to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."_

"Heaven grant me patience!" Moriarty groaned. What had possessed his future self, thinking that Holmes would be overawed by such theatrics? And yet, as the shadow Moriarty turned and stalked out of the room, Moriarty was astounded to see Holmes's bravado desert him the moment his enemy was out of sight, collapsing back into his chair and passing a shaking hand over his face. Could it be...? Could Holmes actually be aware that his destruction was imminent, but was simply too proud to abandon the path he trod?

Moriarty turned excitedly to the Ghost. "More, Spirit, show me more! Let me see how the game will end!"

The Ghost spread its black robe before him for a moment like a wing, withdrawing it to reveal a very different scene: a thundering waterfall in the Swiss Alps, a treacherous cliff path... and two figures struggling desperately at the very end of it... _No!_

The breath left Moriarty in an instant, or he might well have echoed his own scream as his future shadow's foot came down on empty air, plummeting to his death in the maelstrom below... "... _no_..." How _could_ it end this way?! Holmes... at the very last, his opponent had won...

He only became aware that he had sunk to his knees when the Spirit's hand brushed his shoulder, pointing insistently back to the waterfall. Moriarty shook his head wearily. "No more, Spirit... Take me back." But the hand remained outstretched, and Moriarty's dreary gaze eventually followed it, if only out of morbid curiosity. Then his eyes widened as he saw the new tableau: Holmes lying hidden on a ledge above the path as Dr. Watson frantically called his friend's name, voice growing thick with tears as hope was overtaken by despair.

Moriarty frowned, forgetting his own outrage momentarily; for all of Holmes's faults, he had never thought him capable of... oh. His eye was caught by movement above the falls, someone who had been watching the entire time.

"Moran." Moriarty watched in something akin to sympathy as the Colonel hurled stone after stone down on the escaping Holmes, Watson and the Swiss police long since departed. "My poor friend... He'll need this," he said, half to the Spirit, half to himself, as the scene changed rapidly to show Moran's dogged pursuit of Holmes across Europe, then Asia, finally coming full circle back to London. "Have your revenge, my dear fellow, and be at peace."

But Fate – and Holmes, it seemed – had other ideas. Moriarty watched tight-lipped as Moran was dragged away by Scotland Yard, his only worthy heir beyond the reach of any of the few agents still at large. Holmes had made a thorough job of the thing, yes indeed... Almost nothing remained of Moriarty's legacy, not even a tombstone!

Then gradually, Moriarty became aware of an underlying sound, a faint scratching noise that had, he finally realised, been there from the very beginning of these visions. A bitter smile twisted his lips as the Spirit showed him the source. "And Watson continues to write, of course... and thus Sherlock Holmes achieves immortality. The end."

But the Spirit still pointed onwards, the scribbling sound from Watson's pen evolving slowly into the slow _tap-tap-ting!_ of a typewriting machine.

Moriarty sighed – what more could he possibly need to see? "Very well..."

And as they went on, the shelves of Watson's study suddenly stretched away out of sight, crammed to bursting with books, new titles by new authors... "'Hound of the _D'Urbervilles'_?" Moriarty saw himself and Moran reimagined, a dark mirror of Holmes and Watson... then, as if that had been a signal, a cast of thousands stepped out from the shelves and saluted their predecessor: Fu Manchu, 'Gentleman' Johnny Marcone, Lex Luthor, Ernst Blofeld, Emperor Palpatine, Havelock Vetinari...

"Good heavens..." Moriarty shook his head in amazement as it became clear to him that his legacy, although not what he had envisioned, was still alive and well – that to be compared to 'the Napoleon of Crime' would be a back-handed compliment at worst, a badge of honour at best. "Is there more, Spirit?"

All at once, the Spirit seemed to hesitate, starting to draw back its bony hand, but Moriarty was relentless. "Show me!"

The Spirit reluctantly complied, this time showing Moriarty what the future held, not merely for the Empire, but for the entire planet... and Moriarty looked on in horror as mankind proceeded to all but devour itself, like the proverbial snake swallowing its own tail. Unbidden, a stray thought crossed the appalled Professor's mind: _When one tries to rise above Nature, one is liable to fall below it..._

"No!" Moriarty's face was pale, jaw and fists clenched. "All this progress cannot be for nothing, it _shall_ not! Go further!"

Somehow conveying wordlessly that it considered itself extremely ill-used, the Spirit obeyed; and finally, Moriarty recognised what he was searching for. "Yes... yes, that will suffice." He nodded in satisfaction, gesturing imperiously at the sullen Phantom. "You may now return me."

For the first time since his mantel clock had struck eleven, Moriarty felt a sudden chill, as the Spirit turned slowly and gave him a long, thoughtful look, as if it were thinking of refusing just on principle. Then it seemed to realise that the alternative was having this exasperating mortal loitering about indefinitely, using its powers as his own personal crystal ball.

A hasty wave of the Ghost's skeletal hand, and Moriarty abruptly found himself seated back at his office desk, blinking in the gaslight. Heavens, what a journey! Still in something of a daze, he looked about him for some clue as to how long he had been away – if, indeed, he had gone anywhere – and saw golden light stealing through the gap in the curtains. Early morning, then, since the hands of that confounded clock now read a quarter to seven – but which morning?

Moriarty rose from his chair, a trifle unsteadily, then walked to the window and flung the curtains open, then the window; the fire had gone out long ago, and the room was only marginally less cold than the air outside.

"Hullo, there!" he called to a passing boy – perhaps the very same one who had sung so atrociously earlier. "What's today?"

"Today, sir? Why, Christmas Day, o' course!"

Moriarty nodded – of course it was. "Much obliged." He closed the window again, reseated himself at the desk, and began to write furiously. Only four months left to set his affairs in order...

* * *

"Professor?" Moran's eyes widened to see Moriarty standing on his front doorstep. "Is anything wrong?"

"On the contrary, Moran," Moriarty smiled. "May I come in?"

Moran stood back at once, opening the door wide. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, sir, I just..."

"Understandable, Colonel. This was quite the last minute decision on my part." Moriarty allowed Moran to usher him into the sitting room and gratefully seated himself in one of the fireside armchairs – finding a cab this morning had been extremely difficult. "You will be relieved to know that, after much reflection, I have reconsidered my verdict from yesterday. Business in the Firm will continue as usual."

Moran blinked. "Well, I won't pretend I'm not glad to hear that, sir," he said slowly. "I hadn't relished the idea of being cooped up until Holmes offed himself, and that's a fact."

Moriarty nodded in sympathy, wishing he could satisfy the curiosity which was practically radiating off the man. Moran would have to grow accustomed to having his movements curtailed soon enough – attempted murder carried a life sentence. He deeply regretted that he could not allow his loyal friend to follow him this time, he would miss his lieutenant sorely. But it was now clear to Moriarty where his destiny truly lay, far off in the future; all he lacked at the moment was the means to resurrect himself. Once Dr. Martin Fenwick of New London had mastered the science of cellular duplication, Moriarty was quite sure the man would be delighted to learn that a certain vault in the Bank of England contained genetic samples from the world's greatest criminal mind.

"At any rate, that was not my only motive for visiting you. I have decided to take your excellent advice."

Moran eyed him uncertainly. "Which was?"

"You were, as I recall, quite insistent that I should not spend the entire holiday snowed in by paperwork." Moriarty smiled at Moran's incredulous look and added simply, "You were right." Seeing that a response would not be forthcoming from his speechless lieutenant, he continued, "And that being the case, I've come to ask you to dinner this evening – if you are not otherwise engaged, of course."

"On the contrary, sir," Moran all but stammered. "I should be delighted!"

"Then I shall look forward to your company," Moriarty said sincerely, rising from his chair again.

Moran followed him all the way back to the front door before asking abruptly, "Professor? What made you change your mind?"

"What about?"

Moran shrugged expansively. "Any of it."

Moriarty hesitated, then said slowly, "Let us say that yours were not the only words last night to make an impression." And that reminded him... "By the by, do you happen to know the way to the nearest church? I have a certain commission for the priest..."

* * *

A/N: And cue theme music from a certain 90s cartoon! =) Those not familiar with 'Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century', you can find both seasons on youtube - cheesy, yes, but lots of fun, especially for canon fans. I really like that the voice actor for Holmes also plays the chief of police's bumbling sidekick in 'Monk'. Who says Americans can't do British accents?


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